Fire and Flood
by SciFiNutTX
Summary: Weechester tale of two childhood incidents, a fire and a flood.  By request of the reviewers of Murphy's Law.


In Chapter 6 of Murphy's Law Dean remembers a couple of childhood events, and the next thing I know I'm flooded with requests and/or demands for the full story behind those events. I listen – I do! And here's the proof:

**Fire and Flood**

**---------------------**

**Fire **

"Dean!" Sam's panicked voice shot through the bathroom door loud and clear. Not even bothering to flush, Dean yanked his pants up with one hand using the other to throw open the bathroom door. "Help! Dean!"

"Sammy?" he called out, racing out of the bathroom. Thick black smoke curled around the stove and his little brother. "What the hell are you doing?"

Dirty tears streaked down Sam's face. "I…I was hungry and I…" he choked on a sob.

Dean growled under his breath, racing forward to whip out the fire extinguisher from under the sink. His jeans slipped, barely hanging on his hips, as Dean struggled with the extinguisher. He figured out pretty quick how it was supposed to work, but unfortunately it was wound with plastic intentionally too strong for kids to break. Dean pulled against it again, the strain causing his jeans to fall down, pooling around his ankles.

"Perfect," he grumbled, throwing the extinguisher in the sink as he dove down for his jeans. One hand snaked under, grasping for his over sized boots. Inside the right boot was a silver knife, the perfect size for his hand, Dad gave him for his last birthday. Dean whipped it out, still ignoring his fallen jeans, to prize the plastic thingy off the red cylinder. With the extinguisher operational now, it shot out a thick stream of white foam. Dean pointed it at the curtains over the stove, which were soon coated with the spongy, white stuff. Thin yellow flames licked the sides of the foam before disappearing into a puff of dark gray smoke.

Relieved, Dean set down the fire extinguisher. Keeping an eye on the still smoldering curtains, he pulled his pants up and secured them.

"Dean?" Sammy asked in a quavering voice. "You mad?"

"Not now," Dean warned. "Don't ask me that right now. Sammy, how the hell did you set fire to the curtains?" His eyes dropped to the stove just below the smoking curtains. A pan sat at an odd angle and the knobs looked tampered with. "Sammy?"

Sammy swallowed hard. "I was hungry," he whispered.

Dean raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "Hungry? Sammy, I was just in the bathroom! Damn it! I would have fixed whatever you wanted if you'd just waited a couple of minutes!" He felt like screaming and shouting more, but stopped at the tears coursing down his baby brother's face.

He shifted his gaze back to the smoking curtains. The room seemed dark, like dusk was here and they hadn't turned on the light. Dean decided the room must be full of smoke. He went around the motel room, cracking all the windows open. He tried to open them enough to let out the smoke and the fresh air in, but not enough to allow anything else to come inside. One witch after Sammy in his lifetime was definitely enough!

Dean retrieved his shotgun, checked that it was loaded. At least now if anything tried to get in because of the open windows, Dean would be ready for it. He stood guard over Sammy, now weeping openly and draped dramatically across the easy chair with the nasty knife slash across the back. Dean shook his head at the sight. He decided that Sam would calm down faster if left alone and took it upon himself to patrol the room, looking for nasties.

As he checked the bedrooms for the tenth time, Dean heard excited voices outside. He stopped in the main room to peer out a window. People stood around, pointing at something nearby and talking to each other. Over Sam's sobs he could not make out what they said, but judging by their expressions he figured it was probably pretty juicy. With a sigh he turned away. His first duty was to take care of Sam, and that did not include running outside to see what the neighbors were up to.

The sound of sirens got his attention though, and Sam stopped crying. Intrigued and excited, both boys crowded around one of the barely cracked open windows to see why a fire truck was here. Dean gripped his shotgun tightly, eyes flashing with excitement and a little fear. What if the motel was on fire? Should he take Sam out now or wait and see? Dad said not to leave the room; it was an order. Determined not to disobey an order again, Dean checked that their door was locked before rejoining Sam at the window.

"What'd I miss, Sammy?" he breathed into his brother's ear.

Sammy turned sparkling bright eyes on his brother. "Fire truck," he whispered. "They stopped here. Look," Sammy pointed out the window, "here come the firemen!"

Dean grinned, watching the firefighters in all their gear. What an awesome job they had, saving people from fires. There should be a whole lot more of them. If there were, not so many people would have to die in fires. His grin faded as the firefighters ran toward them. Did that mean the fire was close? How could he get Sammy to safety without disobeying Dad's orders?

When something heavy beat on the front door, Dean's heart seized in his chest. It was a trick, they were after Sammy. He lifted the shotgun, aiming it at the door. No one was taking Sammy, not on his watch. Dean settled the butt of the rifle against his shoulder, watching the door warily.

"Dean!" Sammy hissed, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "What are you doing?"

"Get back, Sammy," Dean whispered, jabbing his head toward the easy chair. "Hide."

Sammy's head twisted from Dean to the door and back before he scrambled behind the big chair. Dean could just make out Sam's brown mop above the arm of the easy chair when the pounding on the door became louder and more insistent. Dean lifted the shotgun, aiming it at the point a head should come through if the door broke open.

The door burst open with such force it splintered the doorframe and split down the middle as it hit the wall. Started by the ferocity of it Dean jumped backward, the shotgun going off and missing its target by mere inches. The fireman standing in the door, heavy axe in hand, stared through his face plate with an open mouth. Dean swallowed hard. An order was an order. He lifted the shotgun again, aiming at the man's chest. He tilted his head to one side, silently ordering the man to leave.

The fireman, coming to his senses, lifted both hands up in surrender, the heavy axe dangling from one. He backed out of the room, much to Dean's relief. Dean quickly checked out the door and determined it was a lost cause, but he did not have a choice. With one hand, he tried to grab what was left of the door to drag across the opening, silently trying to convince himself it was better than nothing. Dad was going to kill him. The door was too heavy, he could not budge it with one hand. Dad was really going to kill him! He screwed up again!

Dean hunkered down beside Sam, resting the shotgun over the arm of the easy chair. His eyes never wavering from the open door, Dean waited. Something had to happen soon. It did. The next sound he heard was police sirens. Oh god, he was such dead meat and he only had one round left.

"Sammy," Dean whispered, "go grab some more shells from Dad's room."

He felt Sam's head shake against his side, where his brother crowded close.

"Go on, Sammy," Dean hissed, pushing his brother away. "I only have one barrel left." He kept one eye on the open doorway while trying to watch his brother crawl away.

"Son," a man's voice boomed unnaturally loud from outside, "we know you're in there. Now throw out the gun before you hurt someone, like yourself. If you cooperate, maybe we won't have to arrest you."

Dean's hands were slick with sweat. One by one, he rubbed them off on his jeans trying to decide what to do. If only Dad were here.

More police sirens sounded in the distance, but when they got really close they stopped. Then Dean could hear cars squealing to a stop just outside. Great. That was just perfect. He hoped he would still be here for Dad to kill later.

"Son? Listen, why don't you just call out your parents' names? That way we can call them and ask them to come on down here and talk to you. I don't think you want to hurt anybody."

Dean watched the open doorway, panic rising in his chest. They were going to run in here any second and he would have to shoot somebody. He did not want to shoot anyone. Heck, he couldn't even shoot that witch when it came after Sammy. Dean gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes, determined not to make that stupid mistake again. He waited, Sammy curled up beside him with fresh tears coursing down that innocent face. Well, not entirely innocent, Sammy did start the fire. He planned to have a long talk with Sammy about that later, after Dad killed both of them.

"Young man," a woman's voice addressed him this time, "my name is Miss Williams and I am with Child Services. I would very much like to come in there and talk to you for a few minutes, if you'll let me. I will come alone and unarmed. I can promise that you won't be arrested. Could you please give us a sign if this is all right?"

Dean hesitated, thinking it over. If he let the woman in, he would not be arrested. On the other hand, if she learned their real names they could be in real trouble. He helped Dad avoid child services too many times already to fall for that one. Crouching low, Dean made his way to the still partially open window.

"No one comes in until my dad gets here!" he shouted. He considered shooting one of the police cars to make his point, but figured that might not go over as well in real life as it did in the movies.

"Son," it was the man again, probably a cop, "if you tell us how to contact your dad, we'll call him for you."

Wishing he knew how to contact Dad, Dean hurried back behind the big easy chair where Sammy waited. Sammy grabbed his arm as he squatted down. Dean tried to console his little brother, but since he was just as freaked out it wasn't working too well.

"Son," it was another man's voice this time, one that sounded kind of familiar, "will you let in a negotiator, to hear your demands? This isn't Rockford Files, you can't just stay in there forever."

Dean's head snapped up. Yes, he did know that voice! It was Dad! He went to the open doorway this time, pressing himself against the wall. "Okay, but just you!" he shouted. "And no funny business!"

He peeked around the wall to watch his father handing the megaphone back to a uniformed officer. Dad tried to refuse a bullet-proof vest, but the cop holding it insisted, so Dean had to wait for Dad to put it on. Finally, after what felt like hours, Dad walked slowly up to the open door with his hands in the air. Dean covered him, pointing the shotgun outside while trying to use the wall for cover.

Dad stepped in and Dean nearly collapsed with relief. "Stand up!" Dad snapped softly. "Don't look like you know me."

Dean nodded, motioning Dad inside with the shotgun. They collected Sammy and went into Dad's bedroom. Dad eyed them before pulling both Sammy and Dean into a strong hug. "We'll discuss what happened, and punishment, later. For now, both of you pack your things. Hurry up."

Dean and Sammy bolted into the next room to shove their belongings into a large military surplus green duffel bag. Clean and dirty clothes went in together, there was no time to be neat and careful. Toys and books mixed with clothes, but they were done packing in less than two minutes. Dean shouldered the bag and led Sammy back into Dad's room.

"Good," Dad said with a nod. He took the duffel from Dean and added a pair of his boots, a jacket and a couple of books he left behind. "The rest of my stuff can be replaced. Let's go."

"Dad?" Dean held back. "How are we going to get past them?" He motioned toward the windows.

Dad grinned. "Trust me, son. Now, neither of you say anything and let me do all the talking, okay? Come here, Sammy." Dad motioned for Sammy to step forward and swept the younger boy up into his arms. "Dean, you carry our stuff and come out right behind me. I'll take the shotgun."

Dad, still holding Sammy, bent down to pick up Dean's shotgun. Dean waited, shouldering the heavy bag, to follow his father outside. He had a little better understanding what that fly must have felt like when the spider invited it into the web.

Dad stepped outside first, holding up the shotgun. Dean peered around his father, watching the cops' reactions. They all seemed to relax then, and a few smiled. Dad walked slowly, talking in low tones to Sammy. Dean followed, carrying the bag, head hanging low. As they approached the police cars, he heard snatches of things like 'he's just a little kid' and 'where do you think he got a shotgun anyway' and 'parents like that ought to be shot.'

"Wonderful job, detective," a woman in a boring skirt with matching jacket said, "I'll take the children from here."

Dad handed over the shotgun while Sammy grabbed Dad's shirt tight in both fists. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you'll have to fill out the necessary paperwork down at the station after I'm finished interviewing these boys. We need to know where their parents are and why they would be left alone with a loaded shotgun. There may be more here than a simple abandonment."

The woman's lips nearly disappeared as her mouth pressed into a thin line. "Very well. I will meet you at the station."

Dad smiled and nodded. "Yes, ma'am." He turned to the officer that had been talking to Dean on the megaphone. "All right if I go ahead and take the boys? They seem to trust me."

The cop grinned. "You must have quite a way with kids, Detective. Sure, that would be just fine. Want another officer to ride with you?"

"Nah, I got it. Thanks. You'll take care of…?" Dad's head jerked toward the motel room with the broken door.

"Sure, no problem. Looking forward to reading your report, sir." The officer said with a wave.

Dad waved back, leading them past the police cars and toward a beige four door car. He packed them into the backseat before starting it up and driving out of the parking lot. Once they were on the road, Dean wanted to ask a million questions, but he knew better. Sammy didn't.

"Dad? Where were you? How did you know to come get us? Why were you so late? What took you so long? Did you know Dean almost shot a fireman? It was really scary. Where's our car?"

When Dad did not answer, Dean managed to let Sammy know that this was not the time. They drove a few more blocks in silence until Dad pulled into a crowded parking lot. He got out, leaving the doors unlocked. "Cops," he said, shaking his head, "always think no one would dare steal their car." Dad took the duffel and led Sammy by the hand to the Impala while Dean followed closely behind.

Once they were on the open road in their own car again, Dad said, "So who is going to tell me exactly what the hell that was all about?"

Dean cringed. He figured Dad would yell about this one for a couple of days, at least. "It was my fault, Dad," he said. "I was in charge."

"Yes it was," Dad said, not turning around, "since you were in charge. Let's see. How long should you be grounded from your tv shows?"

Dean winced. Dad really knew how to hurt him.

"Dad, no!" Sam shouted, cheeks flush under the layer of soot. "You can't do that, Dean didn't start the fire!"

"Really?" Dean heard that tone in Dad's voice, the one that meant Sam was busted. He tried not to groan out loud and signaled Sam frantically to shut up. "How else would a fire start, Sam? It's not like you're allowed to use matches or the stove." Dad stressed 'stove.' Damn it, how did the man always know?

"I…I wanted to make dinner." Sam said it with conviction, like it was something he should have been doing for years. Dean shut his eyes, leaning back against the seat.

"And you talked your brother into letting you, huh?" Dad asked. Dean squeezed his eyes closed even tighter, until little pricks of white lights danced across the backs of his eyelids.

"N-no," Sam voice faltered then. "I, uh, waited until he went to the bathroom."

"Oh no!" Dean shouted with realization, clamping one hand over his mouth too late.

"What? Something else?" Dad asked, clearly alarmed, watching them in the rearview mirror.

Dean felt the heat coming off his checks, but he couldn't let Dad think they did something else worthy of attention from the fire department or police. "I forgot to flush," he admitted, chancing a look at Dad in the mirror.

Dad's eyebrows did something weird as his piercing dark eyes evaluated them both in the rearview mirror. Dad's silence could only mean one thing: They were going to hear about this one for days.

**-------------------------**

**Flood **

"Sammy!" Dean called out, checking under the motel bed. "Bath time!" Obviously Sammy already knew that, and his little brother was playing their nightly game of hide-and-seek-to-delay-bath-time. "Come on, Sammy, or we won't have any time for stories!"

A shallow gasp came from the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. With a grimace, Dean pounced on it, and the pile immediately wriggled underneath him. He wrestled with the dirty clothes, nearly gagging as Sammy's stained shorts wound up in his left hand. "Come on, Sammy," Dean pleaded, "or no story!"

"Okay, okay!" the clothes shouted. Dean stood and waited. From under the clothes his little brother emerged.

"And you have to wash your hair!" Dean snapped, pointing a finger at Sammy. Sammy stuck his tongue out before heading for the bathroom. Dean followed only to have Sammy stop in the bathroom door.

"I want to do it myself, Dean," Sam stated loud and clear.

"You always do, Sammy," Dean replied, confused. "I'm just going to run the water for you."

Sammy shook his head, his brown hair so dirty it hung limply instead of flying all around his head. "I want to do the water this time. All by myself." Dean frowned. Sammy had been trying for this for weeks now and his resolve had been weakening. "Please?" Sammy used the big eyes on him. Damn it.

"Fine," Dean sighed, turning away. "Just be careful not to get it too hot, okay? And be sure you already have a towel and that you dry off before you open the door so you won't get too cold."

He paused, holding the door open a crack. "Don't forget to put the big fluffy towel on the floor, so you don't get the floor all wet when you get out, Sammy. And wash behind your ears."

"I know, Dean, I know!" Sammy shoved him away, shutting the door with a click.

"Call me if you need anything!" Dean shouted through the door.

"Everything's fine, Dean!" Sammy shouted back.

Dean stood outside the door for a moment, listening to the water run. Finally he tore himself away and wandered to the television. With a grin, he realized he could watch anything he wanted without his brother whining about it. Dean surfed through the channels until he found a cool monster movie on. It was an old one, where the monsters were filmed with the stop-action technique. He heard other people talk about how cheesy that was, but Dean appreciated all the time and dedication it took to make that kind of movie. He understood being dedicated to one thing and putting all your time in it. Speaking of which, hadn't the water been running for a while now?

"Sammy?" Dean pounded on the bathroom door. "Why is the water still on?"

"I forgot to put in the plug!" Sammy shouted back. Dean tried to open the door, but it was locked from the inside. "Everything's okay now!"

"Sammy! Why's the door locked?" Dean twisted the knob back and forth as far as it would go.

"I don't want to be bothered!"

Dean rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he walked away. He returned to his movie. Oh – awesome! The monster was destroying a city! How did they do the falling buildings with stop-action technology anyway? As he pondered the possibilities, the monster was attacked by the hero-monster. Dean grinned, he loved these fights. Bulky monsters throwing brute strength blows that missed half the time were just hilarious.

"Dean? Could you help me?" Sammy's voice barely permeated the monster fight. "Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean mumbled. "Figures, the movie was just getting to the good part."

"Dean! Can you hurry?"

Dean's heartrate picked up as he rushed to the bathroom. Just outside the door, he heard a splashing sound. Looking down, Dean saw that the carpet was wet. How could it be wet?

"Dean! I can't turn the water off!" Sam's voice was panicked now.

Well, that would explain the wet carpet. He grabbed the doorknob. "Sammy! The door's still locked!" He heard splashing from the other side of the door and the click of the door being unlocked. Dean shoved the door open. Sammy stood on the other side with a towel wrapped around him, eyes wide. Dean rushed in to turn off the water. His boots splashed water everywhere. Oh man, he hoped he could clean up this mess before Dad came back. As he tried to twist the faucet knob, Dean understood why Sammy had so much trouble. It was really slippery and covered with white bubbles. Dean grabbed a clean handtowel and used it to wipe down the soapy knob before trying again. This time he was able to turn the water off.

"Sammy," Dean turned around, tossing the handtowel at the sink, "you don't soap up the controls. That makes them slippery."

Sammy's lips twitched at the ends. "But I wanted to clean them."

Dean rolled his eyes, biting back what he really wanted to say. "Go get dressed so you can help me clean up this mess."

"Dean?" Sammy did not move. "Are you going to tell Dad?" His eyes were too wide and too shiny.

Dean sighed, taking in the mess Sammy made. "Not if we can get this cleaned up before he comes home. Now go get dressed!" he snapped, reaching for the rest of the towels. As Sammy splashed out of the bathroom, Dean had a flash of brilliance. He shouldn't use the clean towels to clean up Sammy's flood, he needed to use the dirty towels. That way they would still have clean towels! Yes! Dean shoved the clean towels back on the shelf above the toilet and rushed out to the pile of dirty clothes.

After pulling used towels from the dirty pile, Dean rushed back into the bathroom. He threw the towels onto the floor, wondering just how much water one towel could sop up. As he worked his way from the doorway, his eye caught a lump of dark green behind the door. Dean froze, ice crawling through his veins instead of blood as his eyes rested on the very last thing he wanted to see.

"Dean?" Sammy sounded more scared now than when he admitted to flooding the bathroom. "What is it?"

Dean pointed at the green duffel behind the door.

"Is…is that?" Sammy gulped. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Dad's?"

Dean nodded, noticing how the water line inched up the side of Dad's duffel as he watched and imagined how wet everything inside was. He was in so, so, so much trouble. Dean wondered idly if he would remember what it felt like to feel the sun on his face.

"Dean?"

The frightened note in Sammy's voice caught Dean's attention. He looked up from the wet floor into his little brother's scared face. "Come give me a hand," he sighed, picking up the soaking towels to wring out over the tub.

An hour later and the bathroom was reasonably mopped up. Dad's clothes were another matter. When Dad came home, he was going to expect to have clean clothes to wear and they were not allowed to leave the room while Dad was gone. Dean pulled the wet clothes out of Dad's bag, trying to figure out how they could stay out of trouble. After all, he was responsible.

"Dean? What if we lay Dad's clothes out like this?" Sammy asked, spreading one of Dad's undershirts on the table. "They can dry overnight and tomorrow we can pack them up, like nothing happened!" Sammy grinned, showing off the gaping hole in his mouth waiting for new front teeth to grow in.

Dean shrugged, adding some socks to the table. The chairs hosted Dad's jeans while Dean searched for small places to hang socks. Sammy took responsibility for finding places to lay out shirts. That left the underwear. With a grimace, Dean fished the soaking wet underwear from Dad's duffel and looked for a place to hang it that wouldn't be too disgusting. He did not really want to have to look at Dad's briefs while eating or watching television.

"Up there!" Sammy shouted, pointing straight up, face beaming.

Dean looked up. There was only a ceiling fan. "What about it?"

"It's perfect!" Sam insisted. "It's really important to have dry underwear, so it needs to be up high. You know, so it gets really dry."

Dean chewed the inside of his cheek, wondering if he should shoot down this theory about high equals dry or figure out how the hell he was going to hang Dad's underwear up there. He eyed one of the chairs. Standing on one, he might be able to reach that high. Dean dragged it over, wet clothes and all. He shoved the wet clothes to the side, not wanting to get them dirty with his shoes. Stretching, Dean found he could reach the fan blades. When he pulled his hand back, it was covered with gray dust. "Gross!"

"I got it!" Sammy shouted, racing out of the room. His little brother returned with a damp towel, which Dean used to wipe down the fan blades. After seeing the layers of dust that came off, Dean resolved to never using a ceiling fan in a furnished apartment again. Next he hung all of Dad's underwear on the fan blades, even hanging the last four from the ends of the blades.

"There, how's that?" Dean asked, jumping down from the chair.

"Great!" Sammy exclaimed, eyes shining. "Now Dad can't get mad at us, because we took care of everything."

"Without leaving," Dean agreed with a nod. "Come on, it's late. Let's get to bed."

"Dean?" Sammy looked up with those big, big eyes again. "Do I still get a story? Since I was such a big help?"

"You mean after you flooded the bathroom?" Dean instantly regretted it when tears leaked from the sides of Sammy's eyes. "Yeah, I guess. If you get into bed NOW."

Sammy raced ahead, leaping into bed with a bounce. He was snuggled up under the covers before Dean crossed the threshold into the room. With a small smile, Dean got ready for bed. For once, he hoped Dad did not come home early.

Dean struggled to get up the next morning. The sounds of the television woke him. He wondered about it, barely remembering the fact that he never shut if off last night. Rubbing bleary eyes, Dean stumbled into the den-living room area. He froze at the sight of Dad's clothes laying out everywhere. Funny how things like that always looked much, much worse in the morning.

With a tentative touch, Dean discovered that Dad's clothes were still damp. Well, maybe they would be dry enough to pack later today. Dad usually got in really late. He moved aside some of Dad's things to clear some space for breakfast.

The sound of someone turning the doorknob caught his attention faster than anything else in the universe. Dean raced to the shotgun, hoisting it into position and aiming for the door. His heart pounded against his ribcage from the inside, driving away any thoughts of food or breakfast.

"Dean?" Sammy asked, voice small and uncertain.

"Stay behind me," Dean whispered, stepping to the side so his body was between Sammy and the door.

The doorknob rattled again, the distinctive sound of a key turning in the lock. Dean took a deep breath, holding the shotgun tighter. Why was he always the one stuck having to shoot people coming in the door?

"Dean!" Dad's voice barked through the door. "It's me!"

"Password!" Sammy shouted from over his shoulder before Dean could react.

He heard Dad sighing. "Flying monkeys suck."

Relieved, Dean lowered the shotgun. He glanced around at their apartment. No way could they clean up all of Dad's clothes in the point three seconds before he walked in. Dean tried to steel himself for the yelling and screaming that was headed through the door.

"Hey, guys!" Dad said as the door swung open. "I made it home a little early this time. How about some break…" Dad's voice trailed off as his eyes widened. "Boys? Something you want to tell me?"

Dean swallowed hard. No, he really did not want to explain this one.

"Your clothes accidentally got all wet when I taked my bath, so we're drying them for you," Sammy said with an authority neither of them actually had.

"Oh." Dad just stared at every piece of clean clothes he had, laying all over. He touched one, made an odd face. Dean wondered what Dad was thinking about all this.

"You know what would probably help them dry faster?" Dad headed to the switch on the far wall. "If the fan was on."

"Dad! Wait!" Dean shouted, holding up a hand. As usual, he was just a little late. Dad gave him a quizzical look as the switch flipped up. Dean frantically tried to remember what the fan was set on last time they used it. Slow? Fast? Warp speed?

Dad looked up, his mouth dropping open. Dean followed his gaze. Blurs of white whipped out, hitting walls and furniture. One white blob struck Dad straight in the face with a soft slapping noise. Guess those were still a little wet, too. Dean watched the rest of Dad's underwear attack the room and he could not help himself. He laughed.

Laughter started in his mouth, but soon traveled down his body until his legs refused to hold his weight anymore. He sunk to the floor holding his stomach, barely able to breathe. His eyes were fixed on the image of Dad standing there with wet underwear plastered over his head. The raucous laughter filled him, racking his frame mercilessly. He felt wet tears rolling down his cheeks but he did not care. The hilarity of this moment possessed him, as surely as any spirit or demon, and he did not have a countercurse to ward it off. Not that he could think of such things at the moment, all he could think or see was Dad with a faceful of wet underwear.

When his laughter finally subsided to the point he could breathe, Dean realized his Dad and brother hovered over him with anxious looks on their faces. "What?" he wheezed out, his face muscles aching from the stupid smile that must be on his face now.

"You okay there, buddy?" Dad asked, helping him to sit.

Dean still felt the chuckles rising up, powerless to stop them. "Yeah, sure, Dad." Two more chuckles escaped as he thought about Dad and wet underwear. "That was awesome."

Now that he really looked at Dad, Dean noticed his father's cheeks had bright pink highlights. Before he could ask if there was something wrong, he saw that the tips of Dad's ears were the same shade. Usually that kind of thing happened when Dad was really mad. Dad did not look mad now, so what could possibly….

Wait! Dad was embarrassed? Dad? Their Dad? The man who chased down and killed all kinds of nasty things that lived in the dark was embarrassed by a little wet underwear? A fit of giggles possessed him as Dad put him in a chair, right on top of a pair of wet jeans and a damp undershirt.

"Dean? Son?" Dad's face cracked into a smile. "I take it this wasn't planned?"

Dean shook his head, unable to speak, more tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Come on, boys," Dad stood up, hauling Dean up with him, "we'll talk about it over breakfast."

"We get to eat out!" Sammy screamed, racing for the bedroom to change clothes. Dean followed slowly, trying hard not to giggle in front of Dad. He had no idea how he was going to eat breakfast sitting across from his father, not while the image of Dad standing there wearing wet underwear on his head was still emblazoned in his brain. Dean decided today was one of the best days ever; he would never, ever forget this.


End file.
